notes from a veteran

Red Pen Mama's baby boy was stillborn more than six years ago. When she started blogging three years ago, her instinct was to follow the 'mommyblogging' path. "I wanted to talk about my kids," she says. "I wanted to be funny. I think sometimes I am (my kids give me great stories), but I was searching for my own voice."

In 2007, she discovered the online world of babylost parents for the first time. "I realized that I could talk about it—talk about him, my baby boy. That along with talking about my living daughters, my anxiety, my struggles, music and books, my thoughts on faith, and my city. But to see that I could share my thoughts and my feelings about Gabriel, and tell his story, and not have people turn away—that was literally breathtaking. I would have people who understood."

Even in the first, fresh few days, I knew that I would feel better some day.

But I didn't want to feel better some day.

The first time I didn't feel absolutely beaten down by the fact of my baby's death, I felt terrible. I was the mother of a dead child, and that was wholly my identity in those first days and months. I wasn't a daughter or sister or a writer. I was a wife—wife to the father of a dead baby.

That dead baby, my son Gabriel, was my whole world. I couldn't believe it. I could not wrap my head around it. I thought it was a dream. I would wake up at night with aching breasts, expecting to hear him cry. I simply could not fathom how this was my life.

I did not want to feel better. But eventually, I did.

photo by niko_si

I can't tell you if it was six weeks or six months later, but I started freelancing again; I went to a concert or two (which was extremely disorienting); I made love to my husband; we traveled to San Francisco with his family, including my pregnant sister-in-law.

I was still the mother of a dead baby. How could I be more than that? Despite my best efforts to not move forward, I was. It was not easy—it was terrifying. But it was forward.

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The kindest thing someone said to me in the days after Gabriel's loss came from my uncle, my father's brother, who had lost his 22-year-old son in a car accident years and years ago. You will never get over this. It was such a balm. I didn't have to try to get over my loss, put it behind me, pretend to "be okay". It was never going to be okay.

You will never feel as good as you did before you became the parent of a dead child. That woman, that man, is lost to innocence, lost to the pure joy and miracle that is making babies. Even sex will be fraught for some time. I suggest wine. Not too much.

Every pregnancy you hear about—even (I hope) your own—will be shadowed, sometimes so darkly you will wonder what you are doing in a world where people want to have babies. It's madness. Madness you may recognize someday as your own.

Though you may need help to heal from such devastation—therapy, medication, a vacation someplace far from everyone you know—you will never get over it.

But you will feel better.

~ Red Pen Mama

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Do you remember one of the first moments that it occurred to you that you might be feeling better? Where were you, and what were you doing? How did your heart react, and how are you now?

Comments

[AP]

my son was stillborn a year and 3 months ago
it was not untill my second son was about 3 months old that i began experiencing an emotion i could not name
i suddenly realized one day that i felt happy
i never really expected to and so i was suprised to find that i could feel pure joy
the days are good now . . .
but there is not a day that passes that i don't feel at least a few minutes of agony and longing for my first
i will never be the same
and i will never get over it

[Martha]

"You will never feel as good as you did before you became the parent of a dead child. That woman, that man, is lost to innocence, lost to the pure joy and miracle that is making babies. "

Isn't that the truth? God, I thought I finally feeling better and then 2 more miscarriages and I want to do is sleep through the rest of this life. I had this stretch of time where I didn't cry about the boys for a whole week. A week! No tears for a week! Didn't mean it didn't hurt but it wasn't SO raw. Now, I'm back to where I was a month ago, aching for my boys, aching for babies lost, aching for future babies that may or may not come.

[caholmes]

The day after I got out of the hospital, I went to a kids display at the local botanic garden, My Big Backyard, with Lily, my husband, FIL and BIL. I was quiet and walked slowly but it was a beautiful day and something told me we were going to be okay. Of course, everyone was very careful around me and I worked very hard to avoid looking at the other moms and moms-to-be. I just focused on my family and felt so grateful to have them. I wouldn't say I was "happy" exactly, but I was something other than sad. I was also still on some pretty strong meds so perhaps this isn't the most honest example. My point is I definitely had hope from early on that I would be okay with time.

[niobe]

I knew from the very, very beginning that, although I was sad -- shatteringly sad, unimaginably sad, sad beyond all words -- I would get over it.

And I did.

[eliza]

At the very beginning, I figured I would be ok. After a few days, when it all really began to sink in, I had some doubts for awhile. But overall, I knew I just had to get through it. What really frightened me was not the thought I'd never be ok, but the looming question of who I would be after everything was all scrambled up and rearranged.

I can't say when. My husband made it a point to make me laugh whenever he could. We made some effort to be 'normal' - probably going back to work was a big turning point for me.

And now, for the most part, ok. Even happy. It's not jubilant anymore, it's more tempered, but more precious for it. Still sad a fair amount too, but definitely . . . ok.

[Steph]

around 3 months. I made reference to the future... something I'd pretty much written off. My husband and I both noticed it, and clung to it. The fact that I could look forward to something was a big milestone. Of course, it was immediately followed by guilt; how could I want to live and go on, with my daughter dead? Yet, here we are, 2.5 years later, somehow surviving, somehow finding a new richness and depth in life and love that we never knew before.

[Dayna]

I think that getting over it and getting through it are not the same thing. I knew from the beginning that I would get through it, but I also knew I would never be the same. And that's OK - I want to be changed by my son's life - becoming a parent should change me and burying a child should change me. For the first 4 months after my son's death, all I could think about was putting one foot in front of the other and getting through each day. After Christmas (which was very hard), my husband and I went on a work trip to Africa for a couple of weeks. When we came back, I felt like I could look at my calendar for the first time since Ethan was born and begin to look ahead - three months ahead felt like too much, but I could make a list of things I wanted to work on in the next month. Last night I applied for a writing program that is in August and it felt possible to think that far ahead. So I think, at almost six months, I am beginning to get through it. But I also want to keep pondering how Ethan's life and death have changed me and hang on to the new sense of compassion for grieving people and the preciousness of life that he has given me. I don't want to get over him.

[CA]

We held a memorial for our son a couple of weeks ago and I think it marked a turning point for us. Although we continue to find ourselves feeling tired and sad, the all-consuming despair has lifted. I went back to work and did some hiking with friends over the weekend. I was amazed at how easily I could almost feel like my old self. I think the challenge is to not beat myself up for choosing to join the living and to remember that I did everything in my power to save my son. I will always miss him.

[mindy]

Im not sure if I've started feeling better yet. We jumped into this pregnancy just three months after Henry's death and now I am 4 1/2 months pregnant and very disoriented. I get the feeling of "not wanting to feel better". I feel that alot, because for me feeling better = forgetting, and I cannot forget, any of it, because it feels like somehow through the pain of all of those vivid memories he lives somehow.

It's so true that "you will never get over this" -- I feel that so sharply. I wish I could wear something in Henry's honor that would tip people off to this truth -- and I would never again endure someone implying that Henry has been gone almost 7 months now, and I must be "feeling better, and getting over it".

[littleskipper]

All I know is that I am changed... completely and forever a different person than before. I try not to look at it as "getting over it", but more as a path that was chosen for us despite being the exact oppisite of what we wanted. I have found so many unexpected blessings in the aftermath of losing our son, one being a friend of a friend who also lost her first baby seven years ago. She likened the journey of a babylost parent to coming upon a fork in the road, with the split repesenting the loss of your dear, sweet baby and the path to the right symbolizing the one you are "supposed" to be on... the one you prepared for, planned in excrutiating detail, dreamed about all those pregnant months. The other path, the one to the left, is the one you stumbled on unexpectedly, and are horrifyingly, unimaginably, totally unprepared for. For a while, the two paths are so very close its hard to distinguish between them. For a while, you choose to stay at the impass, at the fork, unable to accept what has been thrown in your face. Like it or not, time moves forward and at some point you pick up the fragments of your life and start to travel down the left-hand road, which is so hard because it is uphill, unchartered territory and covered in the eggshells everyone (well, most everyone) walks on assuming you'll go batshit crazy at any second. At some point, you look to the right and where you are and where you thought you'd be begin to look different. Not too much, but enough that you notice. This is where I am now, 4 months after losing our son and 3 days after what should have been our due date. We do the best we can to live fully because we think our son would want his parents to better people because of him, no matter what. We also hope that because of our lost son we can raise our future children to savor every moment... because you never know when you'll come to a fork in the road.

[Eve]

Thank for words of wisdom from the far away future for me. I'm only 6 weeks out, and I would say I had this initial sense of optimism (maybe one would call it denial?) that things would get better. But a few weeks out, I fell into a deep despair when I relalized 'this is it, your baby died, and he's not coming back.' It was so hard to know that this overwhelming sadness was not going to pass the same as rough patch of weeks or a circumstantial depression. But, just recently, I realized that I feel stronger to carry such sadness. When it is there, it hurts as deeply as it ever has, but I'm strengthening my grieving muscles and seeing there is the possibility of sadness and happiness co-existing within me.

[llisa]

i started feeling better yesterday
right after i got home from the psychiatrist. i have no idea why. maybe because i realized there was a tiny bit of hope for me? that i didn't always have to be the dead-baby mom. that i can wake up one day a long time from now and be almost-normal again. i am amazed at the difference a day makes.
today i am changed. i can't explain it but i needed it more that most people would ever know. i am hopeful and looking towards the future. i am no longer shopping for remembrances on ebay and etsy. i am going to let my girls rest.

[red pen mama]

Reading through these comments makes me realize how blessed I am to have had my uncle to say those words to me. As my father said (after reading this post), "You never know what to say, but sometimes you say the right things anyway."

I fully advocate the idea of "moving through" rather than "moving on". I fully recognize that such an experience — the loss of a baby — changes one. It would be nice if everyone just KNEW that, and didn't have such high expectations of "getting over it". My family has had the experience of losing children — though not babies like I did with Gabriel — that gave my relatives insight into the fact that one doesn't "get over it". Which is sad, but a blessing to me, especially at such an awful time.

This post is so that you will hear those words, from someone who knows. I hope it's given some hope. You all sound exactly like you are in the exactly right place going through this process. My thoughts and prayers are with you all.

[Jenny]

For awhile - the first year and a half or so - I read all the babyloss blogs right away when I got to work each morning. It felt necessary to me. Knowing that I was not the only one living through something so awful as losing ones baby. After awhile it began to feel like self sabatoge to me. I was feeling better overall, but by starting each day with such sadness I wasn't letting myself find my own way of incorporating my loss into my life. I'm trying to wean myself from all the other blogs right now. Not that I don't care, because I do. But because I need to move forward even more now that I'm pregnant again and hopeful for a different outcome this time around. I still read at Glow. It encompasses so many perspectives and feelings. It's a great place for reflecting and thinking. And for that I am thankful.

[Shelly]

Thank you for sharing everyone! I'm a little over 5 months out from my loss. I was feeling sooo good for over a week now. Thinking about a planning for a future...it felt GOOD! And now today, I learned a friend was pregnant. And my world came crashing in again. The sadness and pain is not as awful as it has been, but it's here...it's back. I *knew* this would happen, but *knowing* it and experiencing it are two different things for me.

I appreciate Red Pen saying you never get over this. I think this past week I thought maybe, maybe I would get over this. Maybe I'd be "OK" again. but this writing is a gentle reminder to me, an open invitation to allow what is, to let things be, and to not try to change or control my feelings. This is my first big loss in life. I've never experienced GRIEF before. this grief thing is so much bigger than me. On my "good" days, I am able to let go and let grief do it's thing, rather than fight and resist. That takes so much more time and energy.

Thanks for being there everyone!